Heart is Strongest Muscle
by Chrysir
Summary: Sometimes, icy heart just needs warm smile. (( i have no idea how to add author's notes so ill put it here, this is my first fanfic ive ever writen, so criticism is 100% loved, ty ))


The first thing she felt was the heat. It was always the heat. Before her other senses snapped-to, she would first know that it was her skin that blistered and boiled beneath the chemical reactions. After that, it was her hearing - that was worse, she thought. The harrowing screams of her comrades filled the air as their insides were boiled, and their skin was turned to a grimy muck coating the ground. The sight was the final piece of the puzzle, and it was by far the worst. The chemicals the Zaunite's used carried with them more properties than the more immediate damages caused by their deployment. Indeed, the biological agents kept the victim's bodies in a state of locking - muscles seized, nerves fired, and the dead became statues. This was no accident; war is fought in many ways, both with the body, _and_ with the mind. To see their fallen comrades in such a state - it was a testament to the strength of Noxus. Or to it's depravity. Either way, it struck fear into the hearts of many.

The dream began to scramble, to seize up and fall away, as though a painting splashed with a pale of water. The landscape dripped upward, the sky dripped downward, and all at once she was crushed by her own despair in the face of death.

She woke up in a start moments later, cold sweat running down her body. She had left the window open - of course she had. She always had. Sighing, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and got up to close the offending shutter, but found that she could not - which only drew yet another, more drawn-out sigh from the woman. Plopping back down onto her bed, she looked at her arms. Scarred and war-torn, the fingers were locking up once again. Try as she might, she would either need to wait a few hours, or have someone look at them. Unfortunately, though she couldn't be sure, it seemed to be about three o'clock in the morning, and she was _far_ too polite to disturb someone at this hour, even at the cost of her own comfort. Another chill ran down her spine, and she gave the open window a look that could kill a man.

She lied back down beneath the covers to the best of her ability and tried - desperately tried - to fall back asleep. But she knew she wouldn't; sleep never came after these dreams. Tossing and turning, she wrestled with the idea of waking someone up - no, no, she couldn't. But maybe...? No! Yes. No. Yyyyno. Yes? She sighed and sat up. "I'll take a walk," She spoke softly to herself in the dark of her personal living quarters in the Institute, "And if someone so _happens_ to be awake..." She nodded to herself, pleased with her plan, and made for her door - before stopping dead in her tracks. She was, after all, in only underwear.

Nearly twenty-five minutes later, Riven managed to clamber into a simple long-sleeved shirt and pants, before slipping on some shoes and quietly whisking herself out the door. The halls in the Institute were always a sight to see; great pieces of art hung here and there, busts of famous or historical figures were placed sporadically, magically levitating potted plants hung about near the intersections of the vast, sprawling structure - and yet somehow, for the umpteen thousandth time, Riven managed to notice precisely none of that. She wouldn't admit it, but she was almost desperate to find someone at this point. It could have been anyone, really - she might have even considered asking Yasuo, if it only meant a tiny chance that her discomfort and pain might be abated. No such luck, though. It seemed, as per her worst fears, that everyone was comfortably tucked into their homes-away-from-homes, enjoying their sound sleep.

"Fuck 'em," Riven growled, seized arms growing even more tense as though meaning to chastise her. She spun on her heel and began making her way back to her room when something curious caught her attention. Out the corner of her eye, far, far down the hallway, she saw - or at least, she thought she saw - a sliver of light eeking out from beneath someone's door. It wasn't even a contest in her mind. She was off down the hall in a flash, walking as quickly and as quietly as her legs would carry her. As soon as she neared it, however, she felt her heart sink. The door was immediately recognizable. The Avarosan symbol at chest height, combined with a large depiction of a ram told her exactly whose door this was - and she was immediately wondering if it was worth it. After all, the titan of a man who certainly lived here was _not_ the type of person Riven typically got along with - she wouldn't admit it, but she was always the brooding type, and Braum's infectious optimism got tiring pretty fast. Not only that, but her hand problem had never been fixed with brute strength - it required the dextrous, nimble fingers of someone who didn't punch through mountains.

She began to turn away when, once again, her fingers flared up in pain. She didn't realize she stumbled into the door until it swung open, sending her falling into the room like a lopsided sack of potatoes. Braum, in all of his quick wit and ability to grasp a situation, merely cocked his head to one side as he stared at her, before practically shouting, "Hallo! Come, come, come in! I do not get visitors often - you have perhaps come for some goatmilk?" He grinned at her, though much of the expression was lost beneath his goofy-looking mustache. Riven, who was currently experienced a forest fire inside her fingertips, managed to eloquently muster a response,

"Hnnnfff."

The next few moments were a blur. Braum had grabbed her up by the waist - which, apparently, was hardly a task worth mentioning - and set her down at his table. The inside of his living quarters were not at all what Riven had expected. Though, in hindsight, she wasn't quite sure _what_ she expected - images of mustaches, maybe? Murals of poros? No, nothing quite so silly. It looked like a cottage on the inside, somehow. The walls were done in a fake log-cabin style, and no matter where she looked, she could see an accolade or trophy of some kind, most of which belonging to strength competitions, or images of himself - both as he is now, and all throughout time, back to when he was just a boy - and a woman who grew progessively older. His mother, Riven idly thought as she took in the surroundings. Braum had earlier disappeared into the kitchen, and was hastily preparing a pair of mugs filled with warm goat's milk. The man returned in a flash, and was plopped into the chair opposite to her, an expectant and enthralled expression on his face. It became suddenly clear to Riven that he was waiting for her to speak.

Riven had always been a to-the-point kind of person. It was just her nature, and so she didn't feel bad when she cut through all the small-talk Braum was clearing expecting - and hoping - for, and instead laid her hands out bare. "I need your help," She began, but was cut off by Braum.

"Yes, of course! Anything for a friend!" The friend comment left Riven a little distasteful, but she pressed on.

"Mhm. I need your help with my hands. I won't go into the details of it all, but I basically need someone to work into the muscles. They're hurting, and they're seized up, and nobody else is awake," She huffed.

Braum seemed, at first, somehow confused. It was clear that he wanted to press her with questions, but Riven was slightly refreshed when he didn't speak another word, instead setting to it. Braum was just that type of guy - a friend needs help, so a friend will _receive_ help, one way or another. No questions asked. It was a sickeningly sweet value that Braum held close to his heart.

Riven was immediately shocked. Even before he began, when he was just leaning over the table to observe her forearms and hands, she was opening her mouth to tell him she would just go, that she needed more dextrous and nimble fingers for such a task. Braum's hands were more than up to the task, apparently, and the skill with which he worked Riven's muscles was honestly astounding. Never before had someone worked out so many knots and kinks in her muscle fibres, and she found herself at a loss for words. Only ten minutes had passed when Braum leaned back, arms folded across his chest, and seemingly satisfied with the quick work he had made. Riven, still reeling from the almost embarassing sense of relief, stumbled over her words for a moment. She was interrupted by a sudden, loud laugh from Braum, "Hah! You look as though you have seen ghost!"

"Just-" Riven cleared her throat and collected herself, "I didn't quite expect that. I thought you'd-" She cut herself off, "Nevermind."

"Thought I would crush you?" Braum carried on where she left off, a good-natured grin creeping across his face. "That my great hands would turn yours to _winter squash_? Hah! No, no. Even the greatest, biggest, BOLDEST ram was once a tiny lamb." He sipped his goat milk. "We remember how it was to be weak, and what our strength is." He nodded, as though the gesture meant to solidify his point - if there was one. Riven, having gotten over her shock and brief awe, quickly cast the saying aside. She stood and made for the door, looking over her shoulder to Braum.

"Thank you, then. That's all I needed." Short and agreeable. That ought to get her out of here.

"Yes, yes. If you have problem, you come to _me_ first." He called after her, though Riven was already out the door, and his words were lost on the wind.


End file.
